


A Brocket Hall Christmas

by LadyEnterprise1701



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, all fluff no plot, because we all need Victoria and Melbourne to get married and have babies, parent!Vicbourne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 08:30:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12980142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyEnterprise1701/pseuds/LadyEnterprise1701
Summary: "Brocket Hall held so many memories, and he often did this when they came here…often got dragged away by some recollection or another. The problem was, there was no telling whether the memories were happy or sad or somewhere in between. She hated that it had to happen this morning, of all mornings. She almost wished the children would barge in right now and yank him back into the present."It's Christmas morning at Brocket Hall, and Victoria and Melbourne have a heart-to-heart before the children come barging into their room squealing about presents. Shameless Christmas fluff with no plot because that's what the Vicbourne fandom needs every once in a while.





	A Brocket Hall Christmas

As unromantic and common as it sounded, a cold nose was the first thing Queen Victoria of England was aware of when she woke out of a dead sleep—and it was her own nose, too. Clumsily, she wriggled her hand free of her cocoon of blankets and rubbed the pert tip of her nose, trying to warm it. When that failed she simply jerked the blankets over her head, hiding from the icy chill that pervaded the bedchamber.

     _Don’t want to get up_ , her foggy brain mumbled as she burrowed deeper into the solid warmth of her husband’s side. _Too early…go back to sleep…_

He shifted, rolled over onto his side. Now Victoria was aware of a profound disappointment—and an emotion that strong probably meant she wasn’t nearly as close to going back to sleep as she’d hoped. Stubbornly, she wriggled closer, balled her small fists under her chin, and ran her bare feet along the length of her husband’s leg in an attempt to warm them, too.  

     And then she remembered—and felt the butterflies right in the middle of her stomach. Butterflies that had absolutely nothing to do with the precious little life growing inside her and _everything_ to do with what was supposed to happen today. 

     _Stop! You’re acting like one of the children—and you need your sleep—go back to sleep, don’t you_ dare _start thinking about—_

_Presents. The tree. The fig pudding and the goose and oh please tell me Mamma didn’t forget the gingerbread and heaven preserve us if I’m right about that miniature accordion and tomorrow’s papers announce to the whole world: “Her Majesty took to her bed after the Prince of Wales drove her half-insane with a particularly noisy Christmas present his father_ insisted _on giving him!”_

_After all the trouble Uncle Cumberland went through trying to prove me insane, my own son will probably accomplish it in a day._

In spite of herself, Victoria giggled within her cocoon. At the sound, her husband shifted. She could tell without even opening her eyes or pulling back the blankets that he’d turned his head over his shoulder, looking for her. 

     “Mmmph,” he groaned. “What time…”

     Victoria slowly peeked over the edge of the blankets. To her surprise—and relief—she could see a pale, grey-blue light streaming through the curtains, and by that light she also saw her husband propping himself on one elbow, reaching with the other arm for his pocketwatch on the nightstand. He peered at it for a moment before falling back into the mattress.

     “What time it it?” Victoria whispered. 

     He turned onto his back, a swift, startled movement. At the sight of her big blue eyes staring right at him, he frowned in disbelief. “Are you _awake_?”

     Victoria smiled gleefully. “Mm-hmm.”

     The surprise in his weathered, angular face changed to sleepy amusement. He relaxed, shaking his head against his pillow. “You’re as bad as the children.”

     “Shh,” she whispered, sliding her arm over his chest. “Maybe if we’re very quiet they’ll sleep on and we can have another hour or so to ourselves.”

     He grinned and clasped her hand, letting his eyes drift shut again with his head still facing her. Victoria pressed herself against his side with her head just underneath his chin; he slid his other arm beneath her and stroked her shoulder with his thumb. A few more months and they wouldn’t be able to do this quite so easily—her pregnant belly would be too swollen—but for now she was still small enough to fit perfectly against him. 

     And right here, curled with him in their bed, she felt perfectly warm…perfectly safe. 

     “I think,” he muttered, “that we won’t have anywhere near an hour to ourselves.”

     “No?” 

     “No. I suspect we’ll have no more than ten minutes. It’s nearly seven o’clock—they’ll be up any minute now.”

     “Don’t say such things, Lord M.”

     “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Ma’am—they’re _your_ children.”

     Victoria lifted her head and pulled an indignant face. “And what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

     Lord Melbourne smiled, his eyes still closed. “We’ve been married for six years, Victoria. I know how restless _you_ are the night before anything halfway exciting.”

     “And you think they’ve inherited that tendency, do you?”

     He smiled even more broadly and looked up at her, and even in the faint light of Christmas dawn she could see the sparkle of ravishing mischief in his eyes. Her breath caught in sheer, almost girlish delight. 

     Nine years of knowing him, six years married to him, and he _still_ made her heart flutter. 

     “I _know_ they’ve inherited it,” he said. “I’ve woken up to a bed full of squealing children more than once—and sometimes you’re as loud as they are.”

     “Oh, you know you love it,” Victoria teased. 

     He chuckled. “I’d be a fool to deny it.”

     With that she grinned in satisfaction and eased back into him, curving an arm around his middle and tucking her head against his shoulder. He held her close again and pressed a kiss to the top of her head—and Victoria thought, quite suddenly, _This is happiness, right here…a happiness that has nothing to do with titles or inheritances or political parties or alliances…_

Because for the moment, she wasn’t Queen of England—and _he_ wasn’t her hard-won consort or even the master of Brocket Hall. They were simply Victoria and William, and the parents of three energetic, Christmas-giddy children.

     It was immensely wonderful to think about. 

     “I’m so glad Mamma decided to come,” she whispered. “I was afraid she might not.”

     “Mmm.” 

     “She’s never been to Brocket Hall. Sometimes I feel as if she’s avoided it. On purpose. As if it’s always been the last way she can remind me how she never really wanted us to marry…”

     “Don’t assume things you don’t know for sure, Ma’am.”

     Victoria frowned, her fingertips thoughtfully rolling the soft white cotton of his nightshirt. “I wonder if her agreeing to come with us means she no longer has any objections.”

     Lord Melbourne said nothing. Victoria tilted her head back and saw his eyes were no longer closed; he stared at the ceiling of the huge four-poster bed, the dark hollows of his cheekbones cut in sharp relief by the dawn-light. She reached up, touched the edge of his jaw with her finger. He blinked, turned his head. 

     “What are you thinking about?” she whispered. 

     “Nothing,” he whispered after a moment’s telling hesitation. “Nothing in particular.”

     “ _Lies_.”

     She laughed as she said it, but he didn’t smile, didn’t chuckle, didn’t even let one corner of his mouth quirk in that familiar, subdued smirk of his. Victoria’s high spirits sank fast as he broke eye contact and stared, instead, at the heavy embroidery on the comforter. She propped herself up again and looked down at him, fear smothering the happy butterflies in her stomach. 

     “What is it?” she whispered, cupping his cheek in her hand. “What is it? What did I say?”

     A gentle, apologetic reassurance immediately tried to fight past the sadness in his gaze. “You didn’t say a thing you shouldn’t have, sweetheart…”

     “Then why did you look at me like that—and then _not_ look at me? Talk to me, please.”

     Lord Melbourne sighed. Victoria ran her fingers through his greying curls, waiting as patiently as she could. Brocket Hall held so many memories, and he often did this when they came here…often got dragged away by some recollection or another. The problem was, there was no telling whether the memories were happy or sad or somewhere in between. 

     She hated that it had to happen this morning, of all mornings. She almost wished the children would barge in right now and yank him back into the present. When he reached for her hand she gave it to him, hoping the contact alone would anchor him _here_.

     “For all the objections we had to fight,” he finally said, his voice slow and measured, “I wonder how many more there might’ve been if I still had a child here at Brocket Hall.”

     _Oh._ Victoria smoothed his hair with her free hand and kept her mouth shut. _Don’t say anything, just let him speak it aloud…it’s always better when you speak it aloud…_

     “And not just any child,” he continued, staring off beyond her at things she couldn’t see. “He was a child everyone else, even Caro, told me to send away to an institution. That was how…ill he was. How would they have reacted if the father of such a living, breathing, _suffering_ child now had the responsibility of providing the Queen with an heir—”

     “Don’t talk like that,” Victoria hissed. “You wouldn’t let me think of myself as nothing more than a brood mare when I was with child, and I’ll not let _you_ think of yourself in a similar fashion. And I’ll have you know, too, that even if you still had Augustus here I would’ve fought for you _just_ as fiercely—and I _would_ have loved him as my own. Don’t ever, ever think for a single moment that I wouldn’t have.”

     As soon as she opened her mouth he looked at her—but now he _stared_ , grey-green eyes wide-open and… _awestruck?_ Victoria couldn’t identify the look, but she didn’t really feel the need to. She bent and pressed a long, hard kiss to his forehead, then cupped his face in both hands and stroked his cheeks with her thumbs until he relaxed and his eyes softened and he leaned into her touch. 

“My darling girl,” he whispered. Victoria closed her eyes in relief. The spell was broken; for all she was concerned, her Lord M was back and the ghosts had fled. She rested her forehead against his—

     But before either of them could speak again the door flew open and slammed against the wall. 

     “ _Mama!!! Papa!!!_ There are _presents_ under the tree—!”

     “And somebody ate the biscuits!!!”

     Victoria sprang into a sitting position, thankful they hadn’t been caught in a more compromising situation, and burst out laughing at the sight of her three children running to the big bed in their nighties, their round faces still flushed with sleep. Six-year-old Vicky, dignified beyond her years, desperately tried to tug her unruly golden curls into submission; four-year-old Edward, high-spirited and with little concept of personal dignity, still clutched his beloved stuffed bear under his arm. Nineteen-month-old Alice looked as if Vicky had snatched her out of her crib and dragged her along as fast as her short, fat legs would allow. 

     “Well, well well!” Victoria cried, clapping her hands to her cheeks in exaggerated amazement. “Three little ones barging into Mama and Papa’s room at _seven o’clock in the morning_. What on earth could have possessed them?”

     Edward seized the comforter and hoisted himself onto the bed; he immediately started bouncing and Victoria grabbed him before he could tumble headfirst into her. “Somebody ate the biscuits, Mama! Somebody ate the biscuits we put out for him last night—and—” the poor little boy gasped for breath “—and there aren’t _any_ left!”

     “Well, we did leave them for Father Christmas, dear. I suppose _he_ ate them.”

     Lord Melbourne nudged her with his leg. _Liar_ , the nudge seemed to say _._ Victoria reached behind her and pinched him. _Biscuit thief_ , she thought mischievously as he jerked back and out of her reach.

“Mama,” Vicky began, lifting Alice onto the bed, “there’s a big, huge, _enormous_ present with _my_ name on it.”

     “Oh, really? Well, I wonder what _that_ could be.”

     Vicky nodded her agreement. “Edward tried to knock it over—but it was so heavy, it hardly moved.”

     “ _I did not!_ ” Edward roared. 

     “Edward,” Lord Melbourne said quietly. “What did we learn yesterday about inside voices?”

     Edward pouted and glowered at his big sister. “Did not,” he said—a little less loudly. 

     Victoria gave his foot a reassuring squeeze before looking over her shoulder at her youngest. Alice had already found her favorite perch on her papa’s lap and now leaned against his chest, sucking her thumb. “And what about _you_ , Little Lady Alice? Did you find anything pretty under the tree with your name on it?”

     Alice smiled behind her thumb and nodded. 

     “There’s a big green package with her name on it,” Vicky said proudly. “ _I_ found it.”

     “Meh-wy Cwiss-mas,” Alice cooed. 

     “ ‘Merry Christmas?’ ” Lord Melbourne cried, turning her around to face him on his lap. “Did my little princess say ‘ _Merry Christmas_ ’ like a big girl? Hmm?”

     Alice giggled—and then squealed, her thumb still in her mouth, as he gently tickled her round tummy. Victoria threw back her head and laughed at the sight of her former Prime Minister trying to keep the wriggling toddler— _our daughter—_ on his lap, and laughed even harder when Edward threw himself into the fray and immediately got tickled for his pains. 

     Vicky, however, only scooted closer to her, unwilling to get involved the tangle of Alice and Edward’s arms and legs, or within reach of her papa’s playful streak. When she felt the girl’s small hand slip into her own, Victoria looked down at her firstborn’s beaming face and shining, grey-green eyes. 

     _Lord M’s eyes._

     “I think I like this part of Christmas best of all,” Vicky whispered.  

     Victoria wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed Vicky’s forehead. “So do I, dear. So do I.”

     Edward flung himself onto the bed with a breathless giggle. Alice, wide-awake now, balanced herself on unsteady legs and patted her father’s face, crying over and over again, “Me-wy Cwiss-mas—Me-wy Cwiss-mas!” Laughing and wincing under the barrage, Lord Melbourne sat up straighter against the headboard and grasped Alice’s plump hands; he gave each one a kiss, then looked at Victoria over the toddler’s curly head. 

     A moment’s shared glance was all they needed. Victoria smiled brilliantly at her husband, and if the smile he returned was gentler, she sensed it held an even greater and deeper joy. He had loved and lost so much over the years…and yet by some beautiful, miraculous stroke of Providence, she’d had the privilege of giving back to him a hundredfold. 

     Yet on the other side of it, _she_ had known so little joy in her short life. And by another incredible stroke of the same Providence, _he_ had shown and taught and _filled_ her with so, so much. 

     What a beautiful Christmas, indeed. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a Christmas gift to the Vicbourne fandom. I know there's not much plot, but I'm full of the Christmas spirit right now and all the (absolutely gorgeous) promotional stills from the Victoria holiday special got my imagination fired up! 
> 
> I'm still working on my novel-length Vicbourne fic and I'm hoping I'll be able to start posting the first few chapters soon, probably after the holidays. But until then, I hope you all enjoy reading this little one-shot as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Merry Christmas, and God bless us everyone!


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